school was approached by the British Ski Club for the Disabled. I can still recall Mum’s excitement when she had told Dad and me that they had selected only three of the pupils to trainand compete for the Paralympics. ‘And guess who they’ve picked!’
I want Mum to look at me with that same pride, but at my school we’re lucky to get forty-five minutes of sport a week. By the time we’ve changed into our kit and trekked to the lacrosse field it’s time to turn round and get changed again. I’m not jealous of Hugo, not at all. I really look forward to seeing him each weekend and particularly love our cooking sessions. I am in charge and we make apple crumble and chicken pie for our Sunday lunch. Often we’ll pretend to be on a television show demonstrating our skills. Hugo says he wants to be a newsreader or chat show host when he grows up. I smile, remembering how one time when we were making sultana scones, Hugo mistook the jug of gravy sitting in the fridge for milk. We howled with laughter, bits of chicken fat bobbing about in the mixing bowl, Hugo saying, ‘Now, folks, that’s
not
how to do it.’
We go for long walks by the lake and Hugo promises he won’t tell Mum and Dad that I smoke, though admits he wishes I didn’t, saying my teeth will turn yellow. He laughed at me when I told him I wanted to be a pothead and play in a band with Janey when I’m older.
When he’s gone I feel lonely and the house plunges into darkness. Unable to sleep, I get up, walk over to my wardrobe, open the door and nestled on one of the shelves, underneath a couple of jumpers, is a half bottle of wine. Curious, I’d nicked it from Janey’s kitchen one eveningafter school, shoved it in my rucksack without even Janey knowing. I wonder if she’s been grounded for a month?
I tiptoe downstairs into the kitchen and open one of the cutlery drawers. In the darkness I feel for the corkscrew. Got it. Quietly, I head back to my room.
I plunge the corkscrew into the top of the bottle, twist it round. Finally I pour some of the golden liquid into my glass. Tentatively I take a sip. It slides down my throat easily; I feel warmth coursing through my body. I take another sip and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling another hit of syrupy warmth and sunshine. That’s better. I feel good. I take another. And another. Soon all the worries about no more pocket money and being grounded fade away. The burn of Mum’s palm striking my cheek disappears. I can’t explain why, but I feel like an outsider, as if I don’t belong in the family. Sometimes I think Mum hates me. I shut my eyes and try to blot out those words I overheard sitting on the stairs outside the kitchen, ‘
It’s hard not to love Hugo more
.’
I empty my glass and pour myself another. I smile, not feeling so alone anymore. The wine takes me to a happy place, far away from home.
9
@GateauAuChocolat Lunch today! Chorizo & cannellini bean soup along with our famous gateau au chocolat. What a feast!
I work in a café in Belsize Village called Gateau Au Chocolat. Belsize Village is a small enclave tucked away on the junction of Belsize Lane, a hidden part of London that thankfully few tourists have found. What I love about the village is that most of the shops and cafés are independent. There’s the local launderette, the family pet shop, the delicatessen selling a mouth-watering array of cheeses, salads and pâté. It’s off the beaten track, and I like being off the beaten track.
When I enter the café, I’m welcomed by the familiar smell of freshly made garlic and rosemary bread and winter soup cooking on the stove. I walk past the front table covered in hardback cookery books, delectable covers illustrating curries from India, homemade pasta and fish marinated in herbs from Italy, barbecued meat from Australia and pies with golden crust tops from the Brits.
On the shelves that line both sides of the shop are further cookbooks. One side is divided into sections,
I want Mum to look at me with that same pride, but at my school we’re lucky to get forty-five minutes of sport a week. By the time we’ve changed into our kit and trekked to the lacrosse field it’s time to turn round and get changed again. I’m not jealous of Hugo, not at all. I really look forward to seeing him each weekend and particularly love our cooking sessions. I am in charge and we make apple crumble and chicken pie for our Sunday lunch. Often we’ll pretend to be on a television show demonstrating our skills. Hugo says he wants to be a newsreader or chat show host when he grows up. I smile, remembering how one time when we were making sultana scones, Hugo mistook the jug of gravy sitting in the fridge for milk. We howled with laughter, bits of chicken fat bobbing about in the mixing bowl, Hugo saying, ‘Now, folks, that’s
not
how to do it.’
We go for long walks by the lake and Hugo promises he won’t tell Mum and Dad that I smoke, though admits he wishes I didn’t, saying my teeth will turn yellow. He laughed at me when I told him I wanted to be a pothead and play in a band with Janey when I’m older.
When he’s gone I feel lonely and the house plunges into darkness. Unable to sleep, I get up, walk over to my wardrobe, open the door and nestled on one of the shelves, underneath a couple of jumpers, is a half bottle of wine. Curious, I’d nicked it from Janey’s kitchen one eveningafter school, shoved it in my rucksack without even Janey knowing. I wonder if she’s been grounded for a month?
I tiptoe downstairs into the kitchen and open one of the cutlery drawers. In the darkness I feel for the corkscrew. Got it. Quietly, I head back to my room.
I plunge the corkscrew into the top of the bottle, twist it round. Finally I pour some of the golden liquid into my glass. Tentatively I take a sip. It slides down my throat easily; I feel warmth coursing through my body. I take another sip and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling another hit of syrupy warmth and sunshine. That’s better. I feel good. I take another. And another. Soon all the worries about no more pocket money and being grounded fade away. The burn of Mum’s palm striking my cheek disappears. I can’t explain why, but I feel like an outsider, as if I don’t belong in the family. Sometimes I think Mum hates me. I shut my eyes and try to blot out those words I overheard sitting on the stairs outside the kitchen, ‘
It’s hard not to love Hugo more
.’
I empty my glass and pour myself another. I smile, not feeling so alone anymore. The wine takes me to a happy place, far away from home.
9
@GateauAuChocolat Lunch today! Chorizo & cannellini bean soup along with our famous gateau au chocolat. What a feast!
I work in a café in Belsize Village called Gateau Au Chocolat. Belsize Village is a small enclave tucked away on the junction of Belsize Lane, a hidden part of London that thankfully few tourists have found. What I love about the village is that most of the shops and cafés are independent. There’s the local launderette, the family pet shop, the delicatessen selling a mouth-watering array of cheeses, salads and pâté. It’s off the beaten track, and I like being off the beaten track.
When I enter the café, I’m welcomed by the familiar smell of freshly made garlic and rosemary bread and winter soup cooking on the stove. I walk past the front table covered in hardback cookery books, delectable covers illustrating curries from India, homemade pasta and fish marinated in herbs from Italy, barbecued meat from Australia and pies with golden crust tops from the Brits.
On the shelves that line both sides of the shop are further cookbooks. One side is divided into sections,
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